


Beginning Again

by UnapologeticShipper



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnapologeticShipper/pseuds/UnapologeticShipper
Summary: Caitriona comes to some difficult realizations during the pandemic, and decides to tell her best friend/co-star how she feels. How will Sam respond?
Relationships: Caitriona Balfe/Sam Heughan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 86





	Beginning Again

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction about Caitriona Balfe and Sam Heughan. Please do not read if RPF is upsetting to you.

The dreams began in April. At first it was only the vague sensation of scruff tickling her cheek. Soon after, there were his lips. Always moist, always pink, always ready to kiss her exactly as she needed to be kissed. 

Eventually, she dreamed of his hands, so large and so warm, wrapped around her own or enveloping the whole of her back. 

By May, the dreams were more fully formed. She saw his slanted blue eyes, always crinkled with joy and mischief in her presence. And there was the ache in her jaw from her near-constant smile when they were together.

Each year, the dreams would begin when they were only weeks away from the start of filming, when she started aching for his presence. This year, there would be no filming, or at least not for many more months to come. But her body didn’t know that, and it missed his.

So the dreams continued, and their intensity only heightened as the days and weeks passed. They persisted until she could no longer call them dreams, but thoughts and feelings that creeped into every facet of her life.

While doing yoga or taking a walk, she thought about his solid chest and the defined vein that ran from his bicep down the inside of his arm. When she was reading, she thought of the way he tucked her under his arm when they were cold and tired between takes. He was always protecting her, always caring for her.

She thought about him when T moved in to kiss her or when he reached out for her across their bed at night. And, for the first time in their relationship, she found herself resisting her husband’s touch. 

During hiatus in years past, she knew that it would only be a matter of time until she could be with him again, feel him near her, share the same breath. Even if it was only as Jamie and Claire, they would be together. And she had fooled herself into thinking that one day, when the show inevitably ended, she would be able to move on from having him in her life regularly. That it would be easy to live without knowing the next time she’d see him. That it would be enough to text, or to get together on occasion.

But lockdown had proved otherwise. The longer they were kept apart, the more she realized that she needed him. Air, water, food, Sam. He was essential to her survival. 

It was torture, early in quarantine, to know that he was in Hawaii, with  _ her _ . It was also torture when he returned to Scotland—thankfully without  _ her _ —and they could only see each other for short visits outdoors. She craved more. She  _ needed _ more. 

At home, the hairline fracture in her marriage ruptured into a full break, and she didn’t have the will to attempt to heal it. They had never spent this much time in each other’s presence before, and as the months went by, she realized that . . . she didn’t particularly  _ like _ T. When she finally spoke to him, he was as unsurprised and uninterested as he’d ever been about anything, which made her even more sure that this was the right decision. He moved out within days, leaving her and Eddie to live in peace, but she kept the secret of their separation her very own, unwilling to deal with the questions, with being judged. The marriage had lasted barely a year.

By the end of the summer she was filming in the English countryside, immersing herself in her role by day, and thinking of  _ him _ —deeply, intently, longingly—by night. Her costar. Her best friend. Her soulmate.

They had laughed during an interview earlier in the year, when he had called Jamie and Claire soulmates. It was something they used to joke about all the time. About how co-dependent their characters were. About the absurdity of believing that two people were fated to be together, destinies intertwined, for all eternity. They enjoyed bringing to life the aspirational love story of the Frasers, but knew that nothing like it was possible in reality. They had been so cynical.

He texted to let her know that he’d be in London to record his audiobook the following week, and asked if they could meet one evening. She wrote back immediately to let him know that she could, and decided right then that she would open up about it all that night. Tell him that she was getting a divorce. And also,  _ God help her _ , that she was in love with him. 

She was beset by nerves in the car on the way to London, fidgeting with her mask the entire ride, wondering how he would respond when she told him. Things had changed so much between them since the beginning. Since the magic of their first season.

_ At the time, it had been so easy to fall into bed together. It was the most natural thing in the world. The attraction had been instantaneous, of course. Anyone who saw the chemistry test could see it. And after the first few weeks of getting to know one another, it became all but inevitable that their burgeoning friendship would bloom into something more. The wilds of the Highlands—where they spent hours wrapped in each other’s arms in a fight to stay warm during the long, harsh days of filming—became the perfect landscape for their romance.  _

_ They existed blissfully in their bubble while filming that year, and it was an open secret among cast and crew that they were together. Their chemistry was radiant and their connection palpable to anyone who saw them at events. At each red carpet appearance, she couldn’t help but wrap her arms around him possessively, and he couldn’t help but look at her as if he wanted to consume her. The questions and the rumors grew louder, and they didn’t particularly mind—although they would neither deny nor confirm them. They simply wanted these sweet, glorious moments in the bubble to last as long as they could. _

_ Things changed once the show premiered. The fans, the press, the pressure—everything multiplied. Neither of them had ever experienced anything like it before. Initially, they clung even tighter to each other. But in time, she began to slip away from him.  _

_ It was after The Wedding aired that she first felt it. The sensation that their bubble had burst, that their relationship was no longer theirs, that the whole world had been invited into their bed.  _

_ She had told him she didn’t want the fans to have a peek into their most intimate moments when they made love on screen. She couldn’t handle people seeing their personal relationship in high definition like that. And she was nervous about their relationship being able to survive the stress they were under. Ever the practical one, she thought it would be easier to end it now, cordially, rather than wait for other circumstances to tear them apart. _

_ He told her that he loved her, begged her to reconsider, and asked her to help him understand why she wanted this. But when she insisted that this was the end, he told her, “I don’t like it, and I don’t agree with it. But I’ll always do whatever you ask of me. I could never deny you anything that you want.” _

Her phone buzzed, and her heart jumped to see his name on the screen. They had planned to meet in the lobby of his hotel, but he asked if they could meet at the attached restaurant instead. “I have a surprise for you,” he wrote. She wondered what it could be, and realized with excitement and a hint of dread that there was no way his surprise could compare to the one she would be springing on him.

She had a moment of panic that made her want to cancel, but instead she wrote back to let him know that she was about half an hour away. Was she crazy to be going through with this? Perhaps, when the moment came, she would chicken out. She didn’t even know if he was dating anyone right now. That was a topic they had categorically avoided discussing since their split. 

Despite the fact that they were no longer a couple, the two of them  _ still _ existed in a bubble of sorts. She knew that others noticed it—the fact that they had their own shorthand, that they could speak to each other in a room full of people as if there was nobody else there, their bodies wholly in sync. That they naturally gravitated together and brought the other to life like no one else could. That her heart sang when he looked at her like she was the only woman to exist.

What she hadn’t realized when she ended things was that it didn’t matter that they were no longer a couple. What the viewers saw on screen was still Sam and Caitriona. The movements, the noises, the looks they exchanged were as much  _ them _ as they were Jamie and Claire. Though it had been five years since they had been intimate as  _ themselves _ , they still managed to find their way to one another, to speak to one another, through these scenes. 

The way that Jamie would rise up to meet Claire when she was on top . . . the way he eagerly sucked on her nipples . . . the way he grunted forcefully with each thrust . . . these were all Sam.

And when Claire pushed her tongue inside Jamie’s waiting mouth . . . when she gasped sharply as he entered her . . . when she gyrated her hips like a belly dancer atop him . . . it was Caitriona. 

She still took his breath away, and he still made her pant. Yes, the cameras were there, often less than a foot away. Yes, the basic moves were choreographed. But they lost themselves to each other in these moments. They could no longer connect physically as Sam and Caitriona, but they could continue to forge their connection through their characters.

The car stopped abruptly, and she looked up to see that they had arrived at the Dean Street Townhouse. She paid the driver and walked towards the entrance of the restaurant, a twinge of unease lodged in her gut.

She saw the back of his head, hair a little long and sandy blonde. He was seated on the outdoor patio, and, of course, even sitting he was still taller than everyone else in the vicinity. He wore his old caramel colored suede jacket that she loved. She glanced down at what she was wearing, and wished for a moment that she had been able to change after rushing to get here after shooting. But then again, she knew he wouldn’t care. Her insides warmed as she remembered him telling her that she could look beautiful wearing a paper sack.

It was only when she looked back up that she realized he wasn’t alone. Graham was at the table with him.  _ So that was his surprise _ . She had a moment before he noticed her to gather herself and swallow her disappointment. Graham was a wonderful old friend, but she had so hoped to be alone with him.

“Balfe!” he called out to her. “I thought we’d get the old gang back together!” She gave them both socially distanced air kisses, and did her best to be enthusiastic through the whole meal. The boys rambled on about their book, their show, and of course they also wanted to know the details of her newest project. At one point, a fan approached them and they took a photo together, knowing that it would wind up all over the internet in a matter of hours. They passed the time together in a blur, her mind elsewhere for much of it, her heart in her throat thinking of what might come to pass once dinner was over.

Eventually, Graham stood to leave, excusing himself for needing to bail early. And then it was the two of them.

“Do you want to have a whisky?” he asked her, to which she nodded instantly. She needed something to quell her jitters.

He looked over the drinks menu with a discerning eye, and then placed it back on the table, looking mildly annoyed. “I don’t really love their choices. I’ve got a great bottle up in my room, though. If you wouldn’t mind joining me there.”

She drew her breath in quickly. This couldn’t be working out more perfectly. “Sure, let’s go,” she said.

After he paid for dinner, they made their way to the elevator—she was beyond pleased that he put a mask on when they got up from the table; apparently her bugging him had worked—as he told her in great, excited detail about the unique small batch whisky that he couldn’t wait for her to try. Internally, she was agonizing over what she was about to reveal. She would tell him straight away, she decided. Rip off the bandaid so that she wouldn’t be fretting for an hour before saying something.

He opened the door and then followed her into the gorgeously appointed room, where they both immediately took off their masks. She knew they had both gotten negative tests the day before. After taking turns washing their hands in the bathroom, he went over to the bar and poured them two whiskies. She gratefully accepted one from him, and took a sizable gulp.

“I’m glad that you invited me up here. I actually wanted to talk to you about something that requires some privacy.”

“Really? Ok. What’s going on?” He stared back at her, eyes wide and slightly concerned. It wasn’t like her to take such a serious tone with him. 

“I'm getting a divorce,” she said, leaning against the back of the couch for support. She felt as if her legs might go out from under her.

His eyes narrowed and his mouth opened stupidly, unable to formulate words for a moment. “What happened? Are you ok?” he finally spat out. He walked quickly over to her, squeezing her upper arm in comfort.

“I’m fine. I just had a lot of time to think over quarantine, and it became clear to me—clear as day, really—that we are not right for each other. We got married for the wrong reasons. And he drove me batshit crazy being home together for so long.” She looked into his blue eyes, heavy with worry for her, and took another sip of the whisky, knowing that she would need the courage to get through the next things that she needed to say.

“While we were stuck at home, I couldn’t ignore all the things that I had chosen to ignore about him over the past few years. Like the fact that he’s not really interested in anything about me, either personally or professionally. I used to think his mopiness was endearing, but it’s actually just . . . really fucking annoying. He’s lazy, he’s unsupportive, he’s a leech. It all hit me at once, and I couldn’t take it anymore.”

He let go of her arm to grab the bottle of whisky and refill their glasses. “I’m . . . sorry. I guess. I mean, I could have told you all of these things three years ago, but I’m glad you realized it for yourself.” She noticed the tight set of his jaw and his pursed lips, and knew that his worry from a few moments ago had been replaced by annoyance. “So, when was this?”

“About a month ago. I told him, and he left almost immediately,” she said.

He breathed out sharply through his teeth before taking another swig of his drink. 

"There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” she said, taking another swig of her own.

He looked at her as she walked towards the window and looked out at the black London night, breathing in as if to inhale whatever bits of bravery she could. 

Turning back to him, she started, voice slow but unsteady. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. About us. I’ve missed you. I miss what we used to be to one another.” 

He stared back at her, not moving. Not breathing. 

“I love you, Sam.”

“No. No,” he said vehemently, shaking his head. “I don’t want to hear this, Caitriona.”

The first tears started making their way down her face. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, his voice growing fierce.

She should have known that he would react this way. She should have known that he couldn’t possibly trust her after how badly she hurt him five years ago. How else _ could _ he react? But she still needed to explain herself. Maybe she could say something to make him understand how deeply and truly she felt for him. That she was incapable of living without him. 

“I love you,” she repeated. “I regret ending our relationship, I regret it with every fibre of my being. I—I want to be with you again. You are the only person for me.” She bit her lip to try stop more tears from falling.

“Is this some kind of mid-quarantine, mid-life crisis?” he scoffed. “You got bored so you decided to end your marriage and have a fling with me? I'm not going to let this happen.” He shot back the rest of his whisky and then slammed the glass down on the desk. 

“This is NOT a midlife crisis, you arsehole,” she said angrily, raising her voice. “And if you don’t want me, you can just tell me. You don’t have to insult me in the process.” 

“As if you haven’t insulted me? Do you recall when you told me you were with him because it was time for you to ‘be in a relationship with an adult’? Or when you called me a male slut and accused me of ‘jumping into a sea of blondes’ after we broke up? Christ, Caitriona!”

Her head was pounding, her throat was stinging, and her heart was shattering.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she said softly, shaking her head. “I’m just going to go. Telling you all this was clearly a mistake.” She grabbed her bag and jacket and headed towards the door, defeated and unable to look him in the eye one last time.

“Wait,” he said, voice strained. She heard him but didn’t pause her steps. 

As she reached for the doorknob, she felt him rush up behind her and grab her by the arm. “Wait. Don’t go. Please.”

She turned and saw his electric blue eyes ringed in red, his nostrils flaring, his cheeks flushed pink.

“Stay. Please stay,” he said, voice low and trembling. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. Come on. Let’s talk.”

He took her hand in his and walked to the settee. She was shaking beside him, breathing heavy, trying not to break down. 

While she sat, he crossed the room to grab their glasses and the whisky, then joined her on the sofa and poured them each another dram.

“I’m sorry that I ambushed you like this. I know it’s not easy for you to hear. And I know it must be hard for you to trust what I’m saying, after all that we’ve been through together. After all that I’ve put you through.” She stopped to take another drink, relishing the burn of the fiery liquid down her throat. It gave her something real to hold onto as she felt her world spinning out of control. 

“Over the past few months, I’ve realized more than ever the importance of living a life of truth. A life that makes me happy, that fulfills me,” she said, tentatively reaching out her hand towards his, and grasping it when she saw that he wouldn’t pull away. “You make me happy. You always have.”

“Then why haven’t we been together?” he asked calmly, steadily, with eyes cast down. “I had to sit and watch you marry him. I had to watch you pledge yourself to him forever. And I had to pretend I had a remarkable weekend, when all I wanted to do was puke the whole time. I didn’t even take my sunglasses off, even after the sun went down that night. Couldn’t stand for anyone to see that I had been crying most of the day. Witnessing your wedding to him . . . was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” 

She knew he was still upset—he looked and sounded shattered—but she no longer heard the venom in his voice. She knew that the worst was over when he started running his finger gently up and down her wrist. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It was a mistake. And I absolutely hate that I hurt you.” She willed his eyes to reach hers, but he wasn’t ready to look at her yet.

“How do you know that  _ this _ isn’t a mistake? I don’t think I could handle going through all of that again.” He withdrew his hand from hers and placed it on his temple, where he rhythmically squeezed his forehead with eyes shut. It was like he was trying to dislodge the painful memories that were stuck there. 

“I’ve spent five years fighting to keep from grabbing you, from kissing you . . .claiming you. All I’ve wanted to do was drag you round the nearest corner and have you and—Jesus God, why am I even considering this?” He ran his hand through his hair violently, pulling it taut at the follicles and stretching the skin tight across his forehead. 

She loosened his hand from his hair and took it between both of hers, and after taking a deep breath, she said, “Because you love me too, Sam.”

He opened his eyes, finally, and found hers. 

“I do,” he said after a moment. “And I’ll always do whatever you ask of me. I never could deny you anything, you know that.” He quirked his lips into a half-smile, but there was still trepidation in his eyes.

She leaned in close, feeling at once possessive and protective of him. “If you trust me and decide to take a chance on us, I promise that I will  _ never _ leave you. You’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your life.” 

He reached out to her and ran his hand down through her hair to where it settled on her neck, his thumb grazing her jaw. He didn’t say a word, but held her gaze steady with his own, emboldening her to lean in further until their lips were nearly touching. He ran his tongue between his lips, and she knew that he was ready. 

When their lips finally met, she nearly collapsed into him from the sweet relief of it. Their kiss was soft and infinite, their tongues making endless, lazy figure eights. She hadn’t had a home for most of her life, but this felt like home to her. She was exactly where she belonged; her tongue entwined with his, the softness of her breasts pushed against the solid expanse of his chest, her hands resting on his shoulders while his fingers tickled the short hairs at the bottom of her neck. 

They kissed and they kissed and it was all that she had been dreaming of these past months. But she wanted more.

Pulling away from him, she stood and began to take off her clothing, stripping each item until she was fully bare before him. He sat silent with his mouth slightly opened, looking at her reverently, incredulously. He had seen her naked on set in the years that they were no longer together, but this was different. This was just for him, and it was a declaration of her love. 

She kneeled down in front of him, and he gasped as she reached for his belt buckle, opened it, and then undid the button and zip of his jeans. He still looked somewhat hesitant, but didn’t stop her. Placing a hand on either side of his waist, she yanked down, pulling off his pants with his jeans, his socks, his shoes. Looking up, she saw his cock freed and bobbing upwards, thick and swollen with want for her, a drop of precum already gathered at the tip. 

She raised higher on her knees and unbuttoned his shirt. He cooperated but didn’t make a movement on his own as she shed him of his shirt and jacket. When she crouched down again, she saw that he had leaned his head back against the settee, eyes closed. 

He quivered in her hand as she began stroking, and when she slid her mouth onto him, he groaned, low and deep. She moved down and took as much as she could of him into her mouth, hearing his breath become increasingly ragged with each dip of her head. Running her fingers through his coarse ginger hairs, she paused to bury her nose in them, breathing in his familiar, slightly sour smell. When she resumed, she kept a steady pace while tracing the curve of his balls with a single fingernail, sometimes slipping lower to ghost between his cheeks. She heard a heavy exhale when she did this, which only made her suck harder at the tip before running her tongue up and down the bulging vein in front. 

“Caitriona,” he said urgently. She knew this meant that she needed to stop before he came. She had always told him that she would be happy to drink him down, and he always answered that he would so much rather be able to come inside of her.

She stood and then kneeled on the sofa, straddling him with one leg on either side of his hips. The passion and want in his eyes could have burned a hole through her. She widened her legs, bringing herself ever lower, ever closer to him, until at last his tip grazed her in the faintest way possible. They both whimpered at the infinitesimal touch, which made her shudder and hold onto him for balance. She lifted herself up and lowered herself down again, this time allowing his head to run along the wet length of her. He placed his enormous hands low on her back, helping to lift her back up. She hadn’t realized that she had closed her eyes, but when she opened them, she saw that he was staring raptly at her, nodding.

This was the moment. The one she had thought about during long flights. During filming. During sex with with her husband. In hotel room after hotel room, alone. Would it be as she remembered? Would it be the same as it was all those years ago?

She spread her legs even wider apart, but this time she wouldn’t just tease him with her wetness. Excruciatingly slowly, she lowered herself, both of them moaning as each inch of him disappeared inside her. She could feel her tissue molding to him, and she kept lowering herself until his tip reached all the way to her cervix and his balls rubbed against her arse. He angled himself, lifting his pelvis up to reach farther into her, and they stayed like that for a moment, just reveling in the power of it, in the feeling of rightness, of belonging, of realization. She moved her hands to his shoulders, giving her something to leverage herself on as she pushed up, so high that he inadvertently slipped out of her. He shivered from the feel of the cool air of the room on his dick, wet from her, and they both laughed before she sank back down. As she rode him, she leaned over to lick his bottom lip before unfurling her tongue into his ready mouth.

Without any warning, he stood up clumsily, just barely catching her before she fell, causing her to shriek and dig her nails into his back. He held her tight with hands underneath her buttocks, explaining, “I didn’t want to make a mess on that nice sofa,” and then gently laid her down in the middle of the bed. He moved between her legs, and began kissing her delicately from her long neck to her rosy nipples, which he took the time to massage with his tongue, and then down her abdomen until he finally reached his destination.

She panted heavily as he ran his tongue along her lips and then she mumbled “please” over and over again when he dipped his tongue all the way inside of her. He brought his mouth to her clitoris and nibbled there, eating her madly until she was breathless and pulsing in a haze of glorious, fulfilled shock. She smiled, realizing that no one had gotten her off with their mouth since the last time they had been together.

Running his hands along her hips, up her sides, to her shoulders, he pressed his body closer and kissed her on her forehead. He whispered, “How?”—he always asked her how she wanted him—and she slowed her still-heavy breathing enough to answer, “Hard. Fuck me hard.”

He slammed into her with a wild grunt as she was still spasming from her orgasm. He lifted her leg from behind her knee and bent it so that the top of her thigh was pressed against her chest, allowing him to reach deeper, and then used his other hand to rub her clitoris again. She was so sensitive to his touch that it almost hurt, but she didn’t want him to stop. And within moments, they were both there, him roaring as she bellowed, jerking in each other’s arms, their faces only an inch apart. 

She ran the back of her fingers over his beautiful scruff, and then wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead before kissing him. 

“You are everything to me,” she said. 

He trailed his fingers around the bend of her ear, rubbing circles on the lobe. He kissed her on the nose and told her, “You have always been my everything.”   


They had been lying on top of the blanket, so he loosened it and helped them both scoot underneath, turning her body so that he could wrap his arms around her and rest them just underneath her breasts. She fell asleep almost immediately, feeling more safe, more loved than she had in years.

She awoke hours later with a start, unsure of where she was until she breathed in his scent and remembered who the strong arms surrounding her belonged to. He was kissing a path around her neck that made her break out in goosebumps. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” she responded, leaning over to place small kisses on his enormous bicep. “Do you know what time it is? I need to leave by eight to make it to set on time.”

“It’s just past six, so you’ve got a while.” He placed three more kisses along her hairline. “You know I don’t really favor your hair short, but I must admit that it does give me better access to your neck.” He dug in for more, this time taking a nip behind her ear.

“Oh, so I’m allowed to keep it short then, eh?” she teased.

He snorted. “As if I would ever dare to tell you what you could or couldn’t do.” Laughing, he turned her around so that she was facing him, and he ran his hand through her hair. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“I love you,” she said, leaning in for a slow, easy kiss. “I missed . . . having all of you. I can’t believe that it’s been five years since we were last together. It seems like a flash, but then it also feels like it was a thousand years ago.”

“Well there was that time in—”

“South Africa,” she interrupted him. “Yes, but we didn’t quite—”

“But it was awfully close,” he said. “That was the one time we let it go a little too far. The night after the rugby game. I went back to my room and beat off harder than I ever had in my life.”

“Oh stop it,” she said, playfully smacking him. “I don’t want to know!”

“You’re telling me you didn’t rub one out that night after I left?” he teased, eyebrows raised.

“Well . . .” she grinned with a shrug.

He suddenly became serious then, the smile fading from his face as he gripped her arms tightly. 

“What is it?” she asked.

He shook his head, saying softly, “We just . . . lost so much time. We could have been married by now. We could have had little ones together.” She saw a tear well in the corner of his eye and she reached to brush it away, just as he flicked away the tear that she hadn’t noticed was falling down her own cheek.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” she said, burrowing her face in his neck.

“Shhhhh,” he said, rubbing her back and comforting her. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m so grateful that you’re here. That you’re mine again. And that I’m yours.”

Lifting her eyes to his, she said. “You _ are _ mine, Sam. And this will be our new beginning.” 

  
  



End file.
